


A Gravity Falls Christmas Carol

by SprucePines



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SprucePines/pseuds/SprucePines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pastiche of Charles Dickens' classic tale. As I borrowed liberally from Dickens' own phrasing, this is technically co-written by him. :P This was written for Christmas 2014, months before A Tale of Two Stans aired and the revelation that "Stanford" was really Stanley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

McGucket was dead to begin with. There is no doubt about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Stanford Pines signed it, and Stan's name was good for anything he chose to put his hand to. McGucket was as dead as a doornail.

Now I don't know what there is that is particularly dead about a doornail, but let me state emphatically that McGucket was as dead as a doornail.

He and Stan were partners for many years and Stan was the sole executor, sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Stan wasn't terribly cut up about the sad event, and he even got the funeral at a discount.

Oh, he was a tightfisted man. A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching old man. The cold within him froze his features, stiffened his gait, made his eyes red, his lips blue. He carried his own low temperature about him. Heat and cold had no effect upon him.

No one ever stopped him on the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Stanford, how are you?" No beggars asked him for money, no child ever asked him the time, no man or woman ever inquired the way to such and such a place. Even seeing eye dogs, upon catching wind of him, would lead their masters out of his path.

But Stanford Pines didn't care; it was what he liked.

Once upon a time, of all the good days of the year, on Christmas Eve, old Stan sat busy at his Mystery Shack. It was cold, bleak, biting weather. The city clock had only just struck three, but it was quite dark already. It had not been light all day.

The door to Stan's gift shop was open that he might keep an eye upon his clerk, Wendy Corduroy, who sat at the counter. Stanford had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so much smaller that it looked like one coal. But she couldn't replenish it, for Stanford kept the coal box in his own room. So she wrapped herself up in her scarf and tried to warm herself with her candle, and failed. But unto the gloom came the unexpected sound of two happy voices.

"Merry Christmas, Grunkle Stan!" It was the combined voices of Stanford's great nephew and great niece, who came upon him so quickly that all he could say in response was:

"Ugh!" he said. "Humbug!"

"A humbug?" his niece, Mabel, said. "Surely you don't mean that."

"You're darn tootin' I do! What reason do you have to be merry?"

"Come on," her brother, Dipper, replied, "what reason do you have to be dismal?"

With no better answer at the ready, all Stan could retort with was another "Humbug!"

"Don't be ackin all cray-cray, Grunkle Stan," Mabel said.

"What else can I be at a time like this? Merry Christmas. What's Christmas but a time for spending your money buying cheaply made crap from China and not cheaply made crap from the Shack? A time for finding yourself a year older and not any richer. A time for balancing your books and finding you hadn't scammed as much money as you'd hoped. If I had my way, every rube who walks around saying 'Merry Christmas' should be baked in his own casserole and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

"Grunkle!" Dipper pleaded.

"Grephew..." Stanford returned sternly. "Keep Christmas your way and let me keep it my way."

"But you don't keep it at all!" Mabel cried.

"Then let me leave it alone then! Like it's done you much good."

"There are many things from which I've received good that I haven't profited from," Dipper said. "But I have always thought of Christmas as a good, kind, forgiving time. The one time of the year when people give freely and to think of others. So even though it hasn't put a dime in my pocket, I still believe it has done me good and will continue to do me good and I say God bless it!"

At that, Wendy promptly stood from behind the counter and cried, "Yeah!" before remembering who was with them and quickly regained her composure.

"One more sound out of you and you can spend your Christmas in the unemployment line."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Tsk, whatever," she muttered under her breath.

"You're some speaker, kid," Stanford said. "I'm surprised you didn't go into politics."

"Come on, don't be mad," Dipper said.

"Come and join us for dinner tomorrow!" Mabel said.

"I'd sooner watch the Black and White Period Piece Old Lady Boring Movie Channel."

Dipper sighed. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Grunkle Stan."

"But we're still gonna say it," Mabel added. "Merry Christmas, Grunkle Stan!"

"Humbug!" Stan growled.

"And a Happy New Year!" Mabel shot back happily as they left the room. They stopped on their way to wish a Merry Christmas to Wendy, who quite unlike Stan, returned it warmly.

Upon their exit two more people, Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland, entered. They approached Stan.

"Mr. Pines," Sheriff Blubs said, "we are here at this festive time asking for donations for the poor and needy. There are many who don't even have enough to keep warm in the cold."

"Aren't there any prisons?"

"Why, yes," Deputy Durland said, "plenty of prisons."

"Oh, good. For a second there, I thought you were gonna say they'd all closed and everyone was out. There's a few people I'd rather not hear from anytime soon."

"What can I put you down for?" Blubs asked.

"Nothing."

"You wish be anonymous?"

"No, I _wish_ to be left alone. I don't have a merry Christmas and I can't afford to make anyone else merry. If they're out on the street, they should be rounded up and thrown in jail."

"Most would rather die!" Durland said.

"Then they'd better get it over with. It'd be one less mouth to feed. It's not my business. It's enough for a man to know his own business and not to mess with other people's."

Seeing that they weren't going to get anywhere with him, the two men withdrew. Stan resumed his work, pleased with himself and in a better humor than was usual for him.

Eventually, closing time approached. With an ill will, Stan dismounted his chair and nodded at Wendy, who blew out the candle and donned her cap.

"And you'll be wanting the whole day off, I suppose?"

"If it's not that big a deal."

"It is that big a deal and it's not fair. If I were to pay you any less, you'd think you were being scammed. But you don't think I'm being scammed when I have to pay a day's wages for no work."

"It's Christmas, Stan."

"A poor excuse to pick a man's pockets every December twenty-fifth. But you be to work early the day after!"

Wendy promised that she would and was out the door in a flash. Stan closed up the Shack before retiring to his living area. As he climbed the stairs to his room, his eyes were drawn to the top of the banister. There was nothing remarkable about the banister. Stan had placed his hand upon it each and every time he passed up or down the steps. However, as he neared the top of the flight, he noted that instead of wood, the banister had taken on the visage of long white hair. Long white hair that had a Band-Aid on it.

His eyes followed the beard (for it was a beard, he realized) up to the very top of the railing, where an ornament usually sat. Said ornament was still there, only now it wore McGucket's face. It was not an impenetrable shadow, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Stan as McGucket had looked: wide-eyed, each eye seemingly looking in either direction, and though they were open, his eyes were perfectly motionless. That, and its color, made it horrible, but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and not because of it.

As Stan stared at the ornament, it became just an ornament again.

To say that he was not startled would be untrue. But he placed his hand upon the ornament and pulled himself the rest of the way up the stairs and towards his room. Before he closed his door, he walked through the room to make sure that all was right. Once satisfied, he closed the door and changed out of his suit before descending the stairs for supper.

Supper was a bowl of cold soup. As he began to eat, he became aware of a clanking sound from far below, as if someone were dragging a heavy chain through his hidden cellar. It suddenly occurred to Stan that ghosts in haunted houses were said to sometimes drag chains.

The vending machine swung out from the wall with a jolt, and he heard the sound much closer, coming up the elevator shaft, then coming straight for the secret door.

"It's still a load of hooey!" Stan said.

His color changed, though, when McGucket's ghost passed into the room.

The same face, the very same. McGucket with his beard, prospector's hat, and overalls. His hand was still encased in the cast he'd always worn. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long and wrapped about him like a tail; and it was made of several bizarre objects: a small death ray, a mechanical pterodactyl, what appeared to be the Gobblewonker, and...was that a robotic Gideon?

Though he had looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him, Stan remained incredulous and fought against his senses.

"What do you want?"

"Quite a bit, by gupity." McGucket's voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"Tarnation! Ask me who I was."

"Who _were_ you then? You're pretty picky for a ghost."

"I used to be Fiddleford McGucket."

"Can you...can you sit down?"

"Yep."

"Do it then." Stan asked the question because he didn't know whether the ghost might find himself in a position to take a chair and felt that the spirit's inability to sit would necessitate an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat on the sofa by his easy chair as if he were quite used to it.

"You don't believe me."

"Nope."

"Aw, donkey spittle," the ghost said. "Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because little things might affect them. Maybe something I ate. You could be an undigested bit of beef, or an underdone potato. Or maybe you're someone pretending to be McGucket. Heck, with these cataracts it's a miracle I can see at all sometimes."

Stan wasn't what many would call a humorous man. In fact, he took great joy in reading from _1001 Yuk 'Em Ups_ ("Uncle Approved!" its cover proclaimed). The truth was he was trying to be smart as a means of distracting his own attention and of keeping down his terror, for McGucket's voice chilled him to the bone.

"You see this toothpick?" he asked, holding a toothpick out from him, wishing to divert the ghost's gaze from himself for even a moment.

"Yes indeedy," the ghost replied, his gaze unmoving.

"You're not looking at it."

"But I still sees it."

"Well, if I were to swallow this, I'd be haunted by a legion of ghosts. It's a humbug!"

At this, the spirit let loose a piercing wail, and shook its chain with such ferocity that Stan had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from falling over.

"Alright!" he cried. "What do you want with me?"

"Does you believe me now?"

"Yes! Yes! But what does a ghost want with me?"

"It's required of everyone that their spirit should scrabdoodle about the earth, but if they don't they don't do it when they're alive, then they're doomed--doomed! I tells you--to do so after death."

"What's with the chains?"

"I wear the chains I made in life. I made it bit by bit, and I wears it of my own free will. You should see your chain. Gee willikers, is it long."

"What are you talking about, McGucket?" Stan asked.

"I spent so many years making all those confounded contraptions. I could have done something more with my life. But you. You've been scamming people left and right for years, Stanford."

Stan was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable with the ghost's accusations.

"But listen now, I've got to shim-sham out of here soon. You have a chance to escape this fate, Stanford. A chance and a hope. You'll be visited by three spirits."

Stan's countenance fell. "Is that the chance you mention?"

McGucket simply nodded.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Without their help, you're doomed. DOOMED! The first one will come tomorrow, when the bell strikes one."

"Can't they just come at once and get it all over with?"

"The second will come the next night at the same time, and the third on the next night just after midnight."

McGucket stood and shuffled backwards towards the window. As he approached it, the window opened and he passed through. He beckoned to Stan, who cautiously came to the open window. He stopped near the window as he became aware of a cacophony of mournful wailing and lamentations. After listening for a moment, McGucket joined the unearthly chorus and floated into the night.

Desperate to know, Stan looked out the window. The air was filled with ghosts, all wearing chains, wandering the woods and moaning as they went. Some were linked together, but none were free. Some were known to Stan. Gradually, they faded from view and from hearing and the night became as it was once more.

Stan closed the window and turned to look at the vending machine. It had returned to its original position. The room looked no different than it had before the visit. He tried to say "Humbug" but stopped at the first syllable. A great tiredness overtook him, and so he went straight to bed and fell asleep instantly.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	2. Chapter 2

When Stan awoke, it was so dark that he couldn't see his hand in front of his face, even without his cataracts. As he tried to see into the darkness, he heard the chimes of the town clock as it struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour.

To his surprise, the bell went from six to seven, then seven to eight and on until twelve before stopping. Twelve! It was past two in the morning when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. He reached for his alarm clock, only to see that its face also read twelve.

"That's impossible," he said. "How could I have slept through the entire day. Unless...it's actually noon and there's a total solar eclipse no one knew about."

Stan stood and groped his way to the window. Looking out, he could see nothing to indicate that it was anything other than a normal winter night. He returned to bed and thought, and thought, and thought some more, and could not make sense of it. The more he thought about it, the more perplexing it became, and the more he tried not to think about it, the more he thought.

"Well, was it a dream or not?" he asked the empty room.

He laid in this state until he heard the clock chime three quarters past the hour. He remembered that McGucket's ghost had warned him that the first spirit would appear to him when the clock tolled one. He resolved to stay awake until the hour had passed. Considering that he probably wouldn't be getting back to sleep anyhow, this was probably the wisest choice he could make. At length, the clock chimed the hour. "Hah!" Stan laughed. "One o'clock and nothing!"

He had spoken before the hour had struck, though. The instant the bell tolled one, light filled the room and his curtain was drawn aside.

Stan was face to face with a peculiar man. He was short, like a child, only without a single hair upon his head. He was adorned in a peculiar outfit, a drab gray, almost like a tracksuit. Tiny goggles covered his eyes.

"Are you the spirit I was warned about?" Stan asked.

"I am," the spirit replied, his voice high and piercing.

"Who or what are you?"

"I--I--I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Whose past?"

"Y-your past."

"What business do you have with me."

"Your welfare."

"I think a night's rest will do me a lot more good than a visit from you."

"Uh...your redemption, then." The ghost held out his hand. "Come with me, I have much to show you."

"No thanks, it's late. My bed's nice and warm and it's cold outside."

The spirit laid his right hand upon Stan's arm, while with his left he pulled a peculiar device from his belt. It appeared to be a square plastic case, with a length of metal protruding out from one corner. The metal was adorned with numbers rising in sequence. The ghost's thumb flipped a switch, and the tape began to retract into the casing.

"Hey, is that a tape meas--"

As the tape snapped into place, their surroundings changed in a flash. They now found themselves in front of a school. Stan stared up at its edifice in awe.

"Wait," he said. "I know this place. I went to school here."

The school bell rang out, and a legion of children poured forth from its doors. As they passed by Stan and the ghost, they could hear their overjoyed cries at Christmas' fast approach. After the last of the students had long since ran out of sight, a lone boy walked out of the school, his books tucked under one arm. Stan looked at the boy and recognized himself.

"You don't seem to have many friends," the ghost observed.

"I was bullied a lot as a kid," Stan said. "I was the biggest wimp on the playground. It got so bad, my pop signed me up for boxing lessons one summer."

As the boy walked by, a group of larger children came running from the other direction, shoving past him as they went. He stumbled and fell into a snowdrift, his books and glasses strewn about the sidewalk.

Stan sighed. "Poor kid."

As he spoke, the school vanished from view and young Stan grew to a young man now strolling outside a movie theater. A young woman walked with him, her arm linked with his.

"Carla..."

"Carla McCorkle," the ghost said.

Stan glanced up at the theater marquee.

" _The Return of Grandpa the Kid_? This was the date that I--"

He was interrupted by the sight of his younger self dropping to one knee.

"Carla," the younger Stan said, "will you marry me?"

"Oh, Stanford," Carla said. "Yes. Yes I will."

The two embraced before continuing their walk, taking them past where Stan and the spirit stood. As they passed, they overheard the younger man describing an idea to her.

"The Mystery Shack, I call it. We'll charge people to come and see all kinds of oddities, but they'll be completely made up. Like get a load of this: the Sascrotch! It'll look like Bigfoot, but with tighty whitey!." As the younger Stan closed his eyes and laughed, his older self observed Carla's expression change to one of disgust as they approached the door to the Juke Joint, where a man with long, blond hair and bell bottoms was already entering.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asked the ghost. "Why do you have to torture me with these visions?"

"I-I'm only showing you what's already happened. D-don't blame me that things are what they are."

With another flash of light, they were back in Stan's room. Overcome with emotion, Stan collapsed onto his bed and was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, Stanford sat up in bed to get his thoughts together. Remembering the impending arrival of the second of McGucket's spirits, he set himself to a sharp look out around his bed. For he wished to challenge the spirit as soon as it appeared and not be taken by surprise and made nervous. Stan mentally prepared himself for a wide variety of strange appearances, and reasoned that nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would startle him very much.

Now being prepared for almost anything, he was by no means prepared for nothing. Consequently, when the bell struck one and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten, fifteen passed and nothing came. All this time, as he lay on his bed, he sat in the middle of a blaze of light, which streamed upon it from the moment the hour tolled. And being only light, that made it even more frightening for he was powerless to make out what it meant.

At last he began to think that the source and secret of the ghostly light was outside his bedroom, from whence upon further tracing it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.

The moment Stan's hand was laid upon the knob, a strange voice called him by name and bade him come. He obeyed and cautiously crept down the stairs.

It was his living room, there was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a tremendous transformation. The walls and ceiling were hung with living greens, that it looked like a forest grove. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected the light like tiny mirrors, and a mighty blaze roared in his fireplace, the like of which had not been seen in the Mystery Shack for many a year.

Heaped up on the floor, forming a sort of throne, were turkeys, geese, joints of meat, puddings, apples, oranges, pears, and cakes. Sitting on the makeshift throne was a jolly giant of rotund stature, holding a glorious torch high, shedding its light on Stan.

"Come in!" exclaimed the ghost. "Come in and know me better, dude!"

Stan entered and hung his head before the ghost. He was not so dogged as he was before, and though the spirits eyes were clear and kind Stan did not wish to meet them.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me!"

Stan did so. The ghost was clothed in a simple dark green robe, bordered with white fur. His feet, observable underneath the folds of the garment, were bare. On his head, he wore a...was that a ball cap? His face was as free and genial as his open hand, his cherry voice, his unconstrained demeanor, and his joyful air. Around his waist was a tool belt, but no tools adorned it.

"You have never seen anything like me, have you?"

"No, never," Stan answered.

The spirit stood and extended an arm towards Stan. "Touch my robe, dude," he commanded.

Stan did as he was told and held it tight.

The room around him vanished instantly and they stood on the streets of Gravity Falls on Christmas morning. The sky looked severe and gray, yet the people moving about were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another and occasionally exchanging the odd snowball. There also came some not so fortunate folks, carrying their meager dinners home. These people interested the spirit very much, and he would sprinkle incense from his torch onto them, and they were filled with glad tidings.

They moved on through the town. Whether it was the pleasure the good spirit had in showing off his powers, or his own kind and generous nature that led them to the home of Stan's clerk, Wendy Corduroy.

Inside, Stan saw her father , Manly Dan, putting the finishing touches on their Christmas dinner. Soon, Wendy came through the door, carrying her youngest brother on her shoulder.

"There's my girl!" Dan roared. "And how was Tim today?"

"He was a regular trooper," Wendy said. "Didn't complain a bit while the doctor checked him out. But we won't get any answers for a few weeks."

Wendy set Tim down and he stepped over to the dinner table. Sitting, he was overcome with a coughing fit. Wendy and her father both started in alarm, but it soon passed and they relaxed.

Soon it was time for the Corduroy's to eat. For a Christmas dinner, it was actually fairly meager. Yet no one complained. After the dinner, dessert was served. Again, it wasn't a large dessert, yet everyone had something positive to say about it.

At last the dinner was done and the table cleared. The Corduroy family gathered around their fireplace with age appropriate drinks in hand. Wendy held her cup out. "Merry Christmas, everyone," she said. "God bless us."

"God bless us, everyone," Tim added.

Tim sat very close to Wendy, who kept his hand in hers, as if she were afraid to ever let go.

"Spirit," Stan said, "what's going to happen to him?"

The spirit sighed. "I see a vacant seat in the corner. If these events remain unaltered, the boy will surely die."

Stan looked at the ghost in dread.

"Well what of it?" the ghost continued. "If he's going to die, he'd better get it over with and be one less mouth to feed."

Stan hung his head as his own words were spoken, but was soon drawn away by hearing his own name spoken.

"To Mr. Pines," Wendy said.

"Mr. Pines?" Manly Dan roared. "I'd like to have Pines right here, right now, and I'd give him a piece of my mind! And my fist!"

"Dad," Wendy said, "It's Christmas Day."

"You of all people know what he's like. How can you toast to the man?"

"Dad...Christmas Day."

Dan sighed. "I'll drink to him for your sake and for the day, but not for his. To Mr. Pines."

Before long the day was ending and night was approaching. The spirit led Stan away from the Corduroys household and to another part of town, to the home of his great-niece and great-nephew, Mabel and Dipper.

Inside, a party was in full swing. Mabel and Dipper and their guests were laughing fit to burst.

"He called Christmas a humbug!" Dipper cried. "And he believed it, too!"

"More shame for him," Pacifica Northwest said.

"Oh, he's a funny old coot," Mabel replied, "and maybe not the most pleasant person out there. But his actions have their own punishment."

"YEAH, BUT HE'S GOT ALL THAT MONEY FROM RUNNING THE SHACK," another of the guests, Grenda, said.

"And what of it?" Dipper said. "He doesn't do anything with it. He doesn't even make himself comfortable."

"I feel sorry for him," Mabel said. "We couldn't be angry with him if we tried. Who suffers from his bad attitude? Himself, always. He gets it into his head to dislike us and won't come to dinner, and what does he lose?"

"He loses a very good dinner," Dipper replied. This was met with general agreement from the gathering.

"I was going to say," Mabel resumed, "that the consequence of his choosing to dislike us is that he loses out on some happy moments, which wouldn't do him any harm. And I'm going to keep inviting him every year, whether he likes it or not."

Following the discussion, the crowd listened to music for a time, then played some games. Dipper began a round of a game called "Yes or No." Dipper thought of something and challenged the rest to guess with only yes or no questions.

"Is it an animal?"

"Yes."

"A live animal?"

"Yes."

"Disagreeable?"

"Very."

"Does it live in Gravity Falls?"

"Yes."

"Does it live in a zoo?"

"No."

"A HORSE!"

"No."

"Cow?"

"No."

"Waddles?"

"No."

"A cat."

"No."

Mabel stood up, a knowing smile on her face. "I know what it is!" she cried.

"What is it?" everyone asked.

"Grunkle Stan!" she shouted.

"And she's right!" As everyone's laughter subsided, Dipper began handing out some glasses of age appropriate drink. "He's given us plenty of laughs, so it would be rude of us not to wish him well today. So I propose a toast to Grunkle Stan. Merry Christmas, Grunkle Stan. You wouldn't take it from us, but you may have it nevertheless."

Stan found himself feeling very light of heart, and he would have thanked each of them in turn if the spirit had given him a chance. But the scene dissolved as his great-nephew's speech ended.

"Can't we stay a little longer?" Stan asked.

"Sorry, dude. My time's nearly up. Listen."

The clock began to chime the four quarters of the hour.

"The third spirit will be upon you soon, dude. Remember what you've seen."

The clock struck twelve, and the Ghost of Christmas Present faded from sight. As the bell ceased to vibrate, Stan remembered McGucket's words and turned to find a hooded figure approaching him from the ether.


	4. Chapter 4

The final spirit slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near him, Stan dropped to one knee; the very air around the spirit seemed to spread gloom and mystery. And this ghost wasn't as tall as either of the others. In fact, it was what Stan would call pint-sized. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, concealing its head and face, leaving nothing exposed but a single outstretched hand. Around its neck was what appeared to be a bolo tie, its clasp a five pointed star.

"And you're the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" Stan asked. The ghost said nothing, but pointed onward with its hand.

Stan hesitated. "You're going to show me things that haven't happened yet, but will, right?"

The ghost briefly inclined its head. This was the only answer Stan got.

"Alright," Stan said. "Lead on. I'm prepared to see what you want to show me."

The ghost led Stan the way it had come. They were now within the town again, clusters of townspeople peppered the road. The ghost led Stan to a particular knot of people. Following the ghost's extended hand, he neared the group and listened to their conversation.

"No, I don't much about it either way," said one man, who Stan recognized as Toby Determined. "I only know he's dead."

"When did he die?" someone asked.

"Last night, I think."

"I thought he'd never die," said a third. "What's he done with money?"

"No clue," Toby said. "Probably left it to whoever got the Shack. Hasn't left any of it to me, that's for sure."

They disbursed, and Stan looked to the phantom for an explanation. He received none.

He was then led to the outskirts of town. In one out of the way alley, he spied a gathering of people. They all held bundles under their arms. The ghost led him to their spot. Stan stepped forward and listened. They were bartering their bundles of items, gleaned from the home of someone now dead and not likely to be missed.

"I think I get it, ghost. This person everyone is talking about might be me. But please, surely not everyone's death is met with such hostility. Is there no one who dies who is missed?"

At these words, the ghost led Stan away from the alley and through the streets to the Corduroy house. Stan slowly approached the window, afraid to look in, but knew he must. Inside, the Corduroy family was seated around the dinner table. Their dinner was a somber affair.

But there was something off, something wasn't right. It was a full moment before Stan realized that there was someone missing. The youngest boy was absent. His seat was there, but neither he nor a plate of food was there. Stan felt a pang in his chest as he grasped the truth.

"Spirit," he said, "I'm not sure how I know, but something tells me that our time is nearly up. So please tell me: what is the identity of the man who died?"

Their surroundings swirled around them and they were standing in the cemetery. The ghost stood amongst the graves, pointing to one in particular.

Stan paused. "Before I look, tell me one thing. Are these things you're showing me things that _will_ be or things that _may_ be?"

The spirit merely continued pointing.

"People's actions lead to certain ends, but if they change their lives, their ends change, too, right?"

The spirit simply stood and pointed.

Stan crept toward the grave. As he neared, the light of the moon shone on the headstone, revealing the occupant's name:

Stanford Pines.

"No. No no no. I'm not the same man I was! I've seen what I've done wrong! Why show me this if I'm beyond hope?"

The spirit's hand began to shake.

"Please. Tell me that I can change these visions. I will honor Christmas!"

Holding his hands up in prayer, he noticed a change in the phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and shifted shape into a bedpost.

And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. He looked all about him, everything was as it should have been.

"Everything's still here." He patted himself down. "I'm still here!" He laughed. "Yes, everything will be different. I will change my ways."

He was a whirlwind of activity, quickly changing out of his bedclothes and into his suit.

"I don't even know what day it is," he said to himself as he stepped out of the Shack. "I don't know how long I was with the ghosts. Oh, I don't care, I don't care." He climbed into his car and started towards town. As he drove, he spotted a paperboy on his route. He pulled up alongside him and rolled down his window.

"Hey, kid!" he called. "What day is it today?"

"What?" the boy asked, incredulous.

"What day is it?"

"Um, it's Christmas."

"It's Christmas! I didn't miss it! The ghosts did it all in one night! Oh, they can do whatever they want, right? They're spirits. Hey, kid, do you know the market over on the next street?"

"Yeah."

"Do they still have that turkey? Not one of those small ones, the one that's as big as you."

"Yeah, I saw it when I went by there."

Stan reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Taking a bill, he held it out to the boy. "Here, take this and go buy it. I don't care if they're closed, keep knocking until they open for you. Then take it over to Manly Dan Corduroy's. And keep the change."

As he drove off, the boy unfolded the bill he was handed and gaped. He was holding a one hundred dollar bill.

As he drove through the streets, he called out to everyone he saw, wishing them a Merry Christmas. His pleasant mood surprised many, but a few were too shocked to do anything but return his well wishes. The words were like music to his ears.

He didn't drive much farther before he saw Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland. He remembered how badly he had treated them the day before, and pulled up to them. He climbed out of his car and approached them. Deputy Durland's hand went immediately towards his taser.

"Fellas," Stan said, his hands held up. "I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. And I wish to make a donation in the amount of..." at this point he whispered into Blubs' ear.

"Sweet gravy!" Blubs exclaimed. "Are you serious?"

"Completely. I've got several years of catching up to do. A Merry Christmas to you."

Stan turned towards his car, only to bump into two people walking past. They were his great-nephew and great-niece.

"I'll be. Dipper and Mabel."

"Grunkle Stan?" Mabel asked.

"That's me," he chuckled nervously. "May I come over for dinner?"

The twins gasped in surprise. "Of course you can!" Dipper said.

"Come on and get into my car. I'll take you around to where you need to go."

And so they did, and Stan spent the entire day with Dipper and Mabel, enjoying himself immensely.

But he was up early the next morning. He was hoping that he could catch Wendy coming in late. And he did. Nine o'clock, no Wendy. A quarter past, no Wendy. She was a full eighteen and a half minutes late. Her hat was off the moment she walked through the door and she was in her spot behind the counter in a jiffy.

"What's all this?" Stan growled in his usual voice. "What do you think you're doing, coming in this late?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pines," Wendy said. "It's just the one day a year. We got a bit carried away yesterday."

"Well, I'm not going to put up with this situation any more. There's only one thing to do, and that...and that..."

He sprung up and clapped Wendy on the shoulder. "And that is to give you a big fat raise!"

Wendy stared in shock at what she heard, and was even more shocked to hear Stan erupt into gales of hearty laughter.

"Merry Christmas, Wendy. A merrier Christmas than I've ever wished you. I'm going to give you a raise and try to help your family out. We'll talk about it later, but for now you get that fire going before you do anything else."

=====

Stan was as good as his word. He did it all and much, much more. He became as good a friend, as good a boss, and as good a man as the town ever knew. Some people laughed at him, but he let them and didn't care. His own heart laughed and that was enough for him. And it was said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if anyone ever possessed the knowledge. And as Tim observed, "God bless us, everyone."


End file.
